


Road to Recovery

by Bunnywest



Series: Gentleman 'verse [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Misunderstandings, Permanent Injury, Sex after injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: When Stiles leaves the hospital, he 's looking forwards to things going back to normal.It turns out that there are hurdles he hadn't anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I know I said I was finished, but then this happened.

 

Stiles looks around the hospital room that’s been his home for the last three months, hauls himself up on his crutches, and says “All right, let’s blow this popsicle stand. I wanna go home.”

Peter grabs his bag and hovers at his side as Stiles heads down the hallway, swinging on the crutches confidently, and he can’t help but murmur “Careful sweetheart” as Stiles starts to gather a little speed.

Stiles stops long enough to turn and say “What? Worried I’ll fall and break a hip?” with a wicked grin.

Peter scowls and tells him “That’s not funny, Stiles” but he’s so happy to be getting out of here, nothing can dampen his good mood. Not when the orderly chases him down and insists that he put those crutches down and use a wheelchair to get to the car, not even when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the side mirror and sees the scar on his face, still red and raised. Stiles is finally going to get his life back to normal, and he’s so damned relieved.

“Who has Lila and R and D?” he asks Peter, wondering which of the pack is on babysitting duty this time. It’s one of the many things he’s looking forwards to – spending time with his children in the comfort of his own home, without Peter having to bring them to see him every day. Not for the first time, he reflects on how lucky they are that they aren’t trying to juggle work and childcare and hospital visits like most people would have to, and that they’re well off enough that the hospital bill won’t break them. He doesn’t know how they would have coped, otherwise.

As it is, he can see the strain showing in Peter’s face, even as his husband kisses him softly and says “Noah has them at home. They’ve very excited to get you back.”

Stiles kisses Peter back, a little longer this time, before pulling away and saying “Take me home, Peter.”

“Gladly, darling,” Peter tells him, helping him into the car and throwing the crutches in the back.

 

* * *

 

 

When they get there, they find that Derek’s there as well, and he’s helping Delilah and the twins ice a cake that they’ve made for Stiles, writing _Welcome Home Papa_ in slightly wobbly printing on the top. Stiles exclaims over what a good job they’ve made, and after Noah insists on a picture being taken to commemorate his homecoming, he settles himself on the couch and lets his children swarm all over him, humming happily.

His leg hurts like a bitch, and he feels like he needs a nap already, but he stays where he is as his children smother him in kisses and hugs, scenting him and screwing up their noses at the smell of hospital and antiseptic and pain. It’s Delilah who says “Papa, why didn’t you say your leg hurts?” as she lays a palm to his hip and starts to draw the pain away. She’s become quite the expert over the last three months, spending time whenever they’ve visited Stiles making him more comfortable.

“Yes Stiles, why exactly aren’t you telling us when it hurts? You know we can help” Peter says, a frown on his face.

Stiles sighs. “If I told you every time I was in a little pain you’d never leave my side. It _always_ hurts, Peter, but it’s not that bad. I can cope.”

Peter’s brow furrows at that, and Stiles hastens to reassure him “They said it will get better, it’s just from the hip replacement. I’m fine, honestly.”

“You know we can all tell you’re lying, right?” Noah grumbles, as he ruffles his son’s hair affectionately.

Stiles looks at him, surprised. “You’re not a wolf, Pops” he points out.

“I don’t need to be a wolf to know when you’re spinning a yarn, Stiles. I’m your father,” Noah replies, giving him an unimpressed look.

“OK, maybe I do feel a little off. I might need a sleep. But first, a shower?” he says, looking hopefully at Peter.

“Certainly, sweetheart,” Peter tells him, and after one last hug from his brood, Stiles lets himself be carried to the bathroom, whispering to Peter “It’s still hot as hell when you carry me, you know that right?”

To his surprise, Peter doesn’t respond with promises of what he’ll do to him in the shower, which is what he was expecting, but instead sets him down carefully and says “Call me if you need me,” before leaving him alone. Stiles sees that Peter’s put a chair in there, and installed safety rails, and something about the sight makes his heart drop.

It makes it all seem a little too real.

 

* * *

 

After his shower (and he did need the rails, how damned depressing is that?) he dries himself quickly and wraps the towel round his waist, and limps out to the bedroom, where he hopes Peter’s waiting. He makes sure that it’s only wrapped _loosely_ , for easy removal. Three months is a long time, and he’s looking forwards to being in his bed, with his husband, and hopefully getting up to a little something.

Peter’s there in bed reading, and he smiles broadly at the sight of Stiles in his towel, but it quickly turns into a frown when he watches Stiles walk haltingly across the room. “You should have called me, I would have helped you out” he scolds.

Stiles drops his towel and slides between the sheets with a sigh. “Oh my god, my own bed, you have no idea how I’ve missed this,” he tells Peter, as he arranges himself so that he’s not lying on his injured hip.

“Mmm, missed you being here,” Peter tells him, and leans over for a kiss. Stiles responds eagerly, but Peter pulls away before things can get too heated, instead leaning over and placing his hand on Stiles’ leg and saying “Let’s get you comfortable for the night, sweetheart” and drawing away his discomfort.

Stiles does feel better for it, admittedly, but he doesn’t quite know what to think when Peter gives him one last kiss, and then turns off the bedside lamp and retreats back to his own side of the bed, turning his back on Stiles. Unable to turn because of his hip, Stiles is left lying there alone, instead of with Peter pressed up against his back as usual. He blinks once or twice, confused. This isn’t what he expected. He’d expected at the very least for Peter to spoon him. “Peter?” he says quietly.

He doesn’t get a response, and he can hear that his husband’s breathing is deep and regular. Peter’s asleep.

Stiles sighs quietly and he thinks about how tired Peter looks, about how he’s come to visit Stiles every day without fail, spending hours at his bedside, in between looking after the rest of the family.

Well, shit. This is probably the first time Peter’s been able to relax in three months. Stiles lies there in the dark listening to Peter sleep, and tries to fight off the feeling of rejection that creeps over him. Peter still loves him. He tells him every day. He’s just tired, that’s all. Tomorrow night, they’ll make love.

Surely.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles wakes in the morning, Peter’s already out of bed. He can hear him in the shower, and he decides that maybe he’ll stay in bed and see if he can coax Peter back to join him. He slides the blankets back so that they pool at his groin teasingly, just covering him, and props himself up against the headboard. When Peter comes out of the bathroom, Stiles extends his arms wordlessly. Peter comes over, slides the blankets a little lower…….and frowns when he catches sight of Stiles’ scars. “Are you in pain, baby?” he asks.

Stiles shakes his head. He actually feels the best first thing in the morning, when he’s well rested. “I’m a little lonely, though. Come back to bed?” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows.

Peter sighs, saying “I would, but the twins are already awake, and Sam’s coming to collect them for the day and take Lila to school. I have to get them ready.” Stiles feels a tiny twist in his gut at Peter’s casual rejection of his advances, but he tamps it down and tells himself that he’s being silly, Peter’s just being a good parent. Peter offers to help him out of bed, and fetches his crutches for him, and brings him coffee, and is unfailingly attentive in every way, so Stiles lets it go.

He lets it go for three weeks.

At first he thinks it's just tiredness, and then it's been a week and he doesn't want to bring it up, and then he _can't_ bring it up, because what if he asks Peter if he still wants him, and Peter says no, confirming  what he already knows to be the truth? And so every night, he hopes that Peter will curl up around him, or nuzzle into him. And every night, Peter rolls the other way after a chaste kiss, and they go to sleep without either of them mentioning the elephant in the room.

And every night Stiles dies a little more inside, and hates his scars with a little more passion. Obviously, Peter hates them too. Why else won’t he touch him?

 

* * *

 

 

Peter lies in bed, breathing steadily, feigning sleep. It’s torture, when all he wants to do is take Stiles in his arms and hold him close, but Peter knows that if he does that, he won’t be able to resist the urge to pin him to the bed and coax him to hardness, and then make love to him for hours, and he doesn’t think Stiles is nearly well enough. It would be selfish, and what kind of a man would put his own needs over those of his seriously injured husband? He’s determined not to pressure Stiles into anything, so instead he rolls over and pretends to sleep.

And the next morning, when Stiles invites him back to bed, Peter makes up some excuse about getting the kids ready and declines, because surely Stiles is just offering because Peter’s gone without sex for so long. He can’t possibly be interested, not really. It breaks Peter’s heart to see the scars on Stiles’ body, reminders of the trauma he’s suffered, is still suffering. He knows the pain that Stiles is in, and highly doubts that he’s in the mood for any kind of sex, so he doesn’t even approach the subject.

And every night for three long weeks, he makes sure that he turns his body away from his husband, so that he doesn’t get an erection while he’s pressed against him, because that would be frustrating and awkward for both of them when it’s clearly too soon. He’s happy to wait, however long it takes for Stiles to be comfortable enough with his body to share it. At least his heat’s not coming up.

Peter doesn’t know what he’ll do when it does, though.

 

* * *

 

 

In point of fact, heat was partially responsible for Stiles walking in front of the car on the first place.

His heat was barely finished, and he was still a little fuck – drunk from the eight days of nothing but sex. His brain wasn’t quite online yet – really he shouldn’t have even left the house, but he’d insisted that he needed that chocolate cake from the good bakery, _needed_ it Peter, and wouldn’t be deterred from going out to get it. And so he’d barely been in any state to pay much attention to anything, let alone hold a phone conversation and navigate traffic, yet he’d _still_ called Peter to see if there was anything he wanted besides the cake.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Three months of hospitals and doctors and specialists, then different specialists, and an operation to put pins in his thigh, and the two hip replacements because the first one failed, and a row of tiny, tight stitches up the left side of his face, and a long meandering row of less fine stitches all up his upper leg and around the curve of his left hip.

And finally, home.

And while he was in the hospital, Stiles honestly hadn’t even thought about sex, but now he’s home with his husband. Peter looks good and smells good, and the dormant urges are making themselves known to Stiles. Every night he goes to bed, hopeful that Peter will overcome his disgust at his scarred body and reach out for him. And every morning he wakes to find Peter already out of bed and showering. And he could cope with that, with Peter not wanting to have sex, but as he lies in bed one morning, listening to the water running, he decides that maybe if he joins him in the shower, Peter will be agreeable to a little fooling around – he’s always loved shower sex in the past.

He makes his way carefully to the bathroom door, and opens it silently, just in time to see Peter coming with a groan against the tiles, eyes closed tightly as the hand wrapped around his cock moves furiously up and down. He closes the door just as silently as he opened it, and sinks to the floor next to the bathroom door, blinking back tears. So it’s him, then.

Peter’s not too tired. He just doesn’t want Stiles the way he is now.

He sits on the floor and lets the hot tears roll silently down his face as he thinks about what he’s going to do next. Obviously, a separation’s out of the question – much as he hates to admit it, Stiles is in no position to live alone, and besides, he still loves Peter and wants to be with him, even if Peter doesn’t find him attractive anymore. Stiles has heard of sexless marriages, and he’d always wondered why you would stay with someone who wasn’t attracted to you physically.

Suddenly, he understands. Peter’s a good husband and a wonderful father. He can’t help it if Stiles repulses him now, and Stiles won’t punish him for it. Maybe they can be together, just not….together.

He hears the water shut off, and scrambles to get himself up off the floor. The last thing he wants is for Peter to see him curled up and crying. He’s an adult, and he’ll deal with this like one.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter comes out of the shower to find Stiles packing a small bag. “Sweetheart? What’s the matter?” he asks, suddenly anxious. “Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

“No” Stiles replies quietly, as he adds another t shirt to his bag, struggling to do so as he balances on his crutches. 

Peter’s brow furrows. “Then where are you going?” he asks, confused.

“I’m moving to the spare room” Stiles tells him, and Peter’s shocked to see him add one of the dildos from his heat chest to the bag.

“Stiles, what’s going on, exactly?”

Stiles turns towards him awkwardly, and his face is a picture of hurt and confusion. “I love you, Peter, and I want to stay married to you, but you obviously don’t want me anymore,” he says, and he has to stop talking before he starts to cry. He takes a deep breath and continues “I’ll move to the spare room, and you won’t have to look at the scars. I’ll keep them covered up, since they make you uncomfortable.”

Peter has no clue what’s going on. “Stiles, sweetheart, your scars don’t bother me” he protests.

“Well, there’s obviously something you don’t like, you’ve barely touched me since I came home!” Stiles accuses.

So much for acting like an adult, he thinks bitterly.

Peter’s looking at him like he’s speaking Swahili. “What do you mean, barely touched you? I take your pain every day, and I help you dress if you need it, I’m always touching you.”

“You touch me, but you won’t _touch me,_ Peter. And at first I thought it was because you were tired, but you weren’t too tired to jerk off in the shower this morning” he bursts out. Peter stares at him for a moment, and Stiles can see the moment understanding dawns in his eyes. “You really think I don’t want you?” Peter asks.

“Well obviously you don’t. You don’t even spoon me anymore. And I mean, I’m not blaming you. You can’t help it if the scars are a turnoff for you.  I get it. They’re pretty damned ugly. But I can’t stay sleeping in the same bed as you knowing that you’ll never want me that way. It’s killing me. So I think it would be better if I moved to the spare room, and we can just live together and be good parents to our children, and forget about the rest of it.” A choked off sob escapes him, but he struggles to keep it together.

Peter sits heavily on the edge of the bed and puts his face in his hands, and Stiles hears a muttered “fuck.” Peter sits there for a full minute, just taking deep breaths, and Stiles waits for him to respond, to say something, anything.

“You admit it, then” he says, just to break the silence.

Peter takes his hands away from his face, and Stiles can see tears there too. Well, he guesses this isn’t easy for Peter, either. Peter stands up and takes a step forwards, and wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him in for a hug. “I’m so, so sorry sweetheart,” he begins, as he peppers tiny kisses all over Stiles’ face. “I’m so sorry I’ve been an idiot. How could you think I don’t want you, gorgeous boy?” Peter continues, as he pulls Stiles’ still tense body closer to his.

“If you want me, why are you avoiding me?” Stiles challenges.

Peter sighs, and admits “I thought you weren’t well enough for sex yet. You’re still in so much pain, and I didn’t want to pressure you.”

Stiles pulls away just long enough to lift his arms and release the crutches, leaning into Peter with all his weight, and Peter can feel his body relaxing, just a little.

“I promise you sweetheart, the last thing I want is for you to move to the spare room. I’ve been getting up early and taking care of myself in the shower, because otherwise I’ll be too tempted to fuck you senseless before you get out of bed,” Peter explains. He lowers them both gently to the bed, pushing the bag to the floor as he does so. Then he takes Stiles' face in his hands and looks deep into his eyes as he tells him “Please believe me, sweetheart. I thought I was being considerate. I assumed that because you were still recovering, the last thing you wanted was somebody touching you and jostling you while you were trying to sleep.”

Stiles looks at him, confused. “So, you do still want me?”

“I always did. I just didn’t want to push” Peter admits.

“So, instead of telling me straight out ‘Stiles, I’m afraid I’ll hurt you’ you just…left me wondering what the hell was going on,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

“In hindsight, it probably wasn’t my best move” Peter concedes. He looks at Stiles hopefully and asks “So, no spare room? You stay here  and we have lots of sex instead?”

Stiles gives him a watery smile. “As long as next time you think you know what I want, you maybe talk to me first?” he suggests.

Peter sighs. "I didn’t want to make you talk about it because I didn’t want to force you into anything. But sweetheart, you didn’t ask me, either” he points out.

Stiles lowers his head and says in a small voice “Yes I did. That first morning, I did. I said come back to bed, and you said you had to get the kids ready for Sam, and I was waiting for you to say that once we had the house to ourselves we could make up for lost time, but you never did. So after you turned me down that time, I wasn’t game to ask a second. I thought I’d just wait till you were interested. And then you never were. So I thought it must be me.”

Peter groans loudly. “God, Stiles. If you had any idea how much I’ve wanted you these past weeks. How much I _still_ want you, darling” he growls into the shell of Stiles’ ear. And then he draws him in for a long, slow, passionate kiss, full of promise, and Stiles relaxes even further as he lets himself be laid back gently on the bed by his husband, who does still want him, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter and Stiles kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and they only stop so that Stiles can call his Dad and ask him if he’ll pick up the kids and drop them at school and daycare for him. “I just can’t seem to get out of bed, Pops, and I don’t want Peter to leave me alone. Yes, he’s taking good care of me, I promise. Yes, I’ll stay in bed all day.  No, I don’t need the doctor. OK, thanks. See you then.”

He hangs up and tells Peter “You have half an hour to get them ready. I’m going to have a shower, and then I promised my dad I’d stay in bed today, and that you’d take care of me.”

“Oh I will, don’t you worry,” Peter promises, chuckling and leaning in for one last kiss.

He’s tempted to linger, but Stiles shoves him and tells him firmly “Go pack lunches and dress those children of yours, Mr Hale. The sooner you go, the sooner you get to come back to bed.”

When Noah arrives, his grandchildren are ready and waiting for him, and he crouches down with his arms wide and lets them hug him enthusiastically, his face wreathed in smiles at the outpouring of affection. “I’ll pick them up from school this afternoon and keep them tonight, how does that sound?” he offers, and Peter eagerly agrees.

After Noah leaves, Peter locks the door and races back towards the bedroom, shedding his clothing as he does so. He stops in the doorway, drinking in the sight of Stiles, who’s sprawled across the bed, one hand behind his head and the other stroking himself slowly. “My god, you’re gorgeous” he breathes out.

Stiles grins, and says “Damn straight. Now get over here, it’s been too long.”

Peter crawls up the bed and drapes himself gently over Stiles, saying “I’m going to make this unforgettable, darling.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s unforgettable all right, but not the way Peter intended it to be.

 It’s a complete and utter clusterfuck, only without the fuck. Stiles finds that he can’t spread his legs wide for Peter like he normally does without it causing him severe pain. And he can’t get on his hands and knees. And he sure as hell can’t get on top – when he tries, his thigh seizes up, and there are tears in his eyes as he swears and rolls off to the side. As the icing on the cake, the sight of him in so much pain kills any arousal Peter was feeling, and Stiles groans as he watches Peter’s cock soften and wilt before his eyes. “Well, fuck,” he says bitterly.

Peter pulls him close and holds him, placing a hand on his leg, and Stiles doesn’t even try to hide his relief as the thick black lines snake up Peter’s arm. “Better?” he asks quietly.

“Mmm. Thank you. And I’m sorry” Stiles says, nearly in tears.

“What for, darling?” Peter asks, running his hand over the scars on Stiles’ hip absently.

“I told you I was ready, and I wasn't. Every position I try hurts, and now you're left disappointed.” He’s quiet for a moment, before saying “Peter, what if I can’t? What if it’s never any good?” Peter kisses the top of Stiles’ head and holds him close, making small soothing noises as Stiles gives up and cries silently, shaking in his grasp.

Peter feels the dampness on his own face as his heart breaks for his husband, but he doesn’t bother to wipe the stray tears away, too busy comforting Stiles, murmuring assurances that it will all be fine, today doesn’t matter, they can try again any time. Stiles finally cries himself out and lays limp in Peter’s arms, the odd hitching breath escaping him. Peter just keeps running his hands up and down his body, and Stiles drifts into an exhausted sleep.

Peter lays on his back as Stiles dozes, and tries not to think about what Stiles said.

What if it's never any good?

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t mention sex again for another week, and neither does Peter. What was an elephant in the room is suddenly a bear, and it has teeth. They’re both a little afraid to approach it. But Peter does start to wrap himself around Stiles at night again, and they both sleep better for it. By mutual unspoken agreement they ignore his morning wood, right up until the day Peter finds himself rocking forwards, still mostly asleep, and feels Stiles pressing back against him. He pulls away a little as he wakes further, not wanting to make Stiles uncomfortable, but Stiles speaks into the still morning air, saying “It’s fine. Keep going.”

Peter and nuzzles Stiles neck for a moment, before saying “Are you sure?” Stiles nods, and presses back against him with a moan. Peter slots himself against the cleft of Stiles’ ass and begins to grind a little more firmly, and soon he feels the droplets of precome leaking, spreading a little with each thrust, easing the way.

He’s picking up a little more pace, eyes closed as he savors the sensation of flesh on flesh, when he feels Stiles move away and start to roll over. He opens his eyes to see Stiles now lying on his back, watching him with a wicked grin on his face. “I could blow you” he offers, and at the very thought of it Peter’s cock twitches.

“God, yes,” Peter breathes.

“Get out of bed,” Stiles instructs him, as he starts to shuffle around so he’s lying flat on his back with his head in hanging off the side of the bed. Peter sees immediately how this is meant to go, and he eagerly stands next to the bed and positions himself so that his cock is nudging at Stiles’ slightly open mouth. Stiles opens wider, tilting his head back so that Peter’s full length slides easily inside, and the warmth and wetness and suction makes his toes curl with how good it feels.

Stiles has always had a talented mouth, and it’s been so damned long. Peter lasts all of thirty seconds before he’s spurting down his throat with no warning, and Stiles swallows it all effortlessly, before suckling at Peter’s slowly softening cock with a satisfied hum. Peter stands there panting for a moment before pulling out and leaning down to kiss Stiles where he lies upside down, tasting himself as he does so and not caring one bit.

“Mmm, Spiderman kiss,” Stiles teases when Peter finally pulls away. He’s smiling, a genuinely happy smile, one that Peter’s only seen rarely since he was injured, and it ignites a spark of hope in Peter’s chest that maybe, just maybe, Stiles might be all right after all.

That spark flickers into a flame when Stiles’ hand wanders down and he starts to stroke himself, still smiling, and says “Any chance you’d like to return the favor?”

Peter immediately moves to the other side of the bed where Stiles’ legs are sprawled wide, and slots himself between them, lowering his head to lick at Stiles’ hole. He’s gratified to see that there’s slick running there, something he hasn’t seen in too damned long, and he laps at it eagerly. Stiles moans at the contact, and his hand moves faster, but Peter knows he needs something inside him to bring him to orgasm, so he slips two fingers in, right off the bat.

Stiles clenches around him and shifts his hips a little, and Peter takes the hint and plunges them in harder and deeper, causing Stiles’ breath to hitch in his throat. Peter grins, and starts to work his fingers in and out smoothly, twisting and stretching Stiles out as he does so.  He’s careful not to rest his weight on him at all, and he watches for any signs of pain, but Stiles isn’t making the sounds he is because anything hurts, they’re all sounds of pure pleasure. Peter leans forwards and prises Stiles’ hand off his cock, and takes it in his mouth instead, sucking and licking along the length as he continues to finger him, and Stiles can’t hold back, hips bucking up as he comes with a shout.

About ten seconds later, his face pales as he hisses “Fuck, fuck, fuck, cramp!” clutching at his thigh.

Peter immediately starts to massage the muscle and draw the pain away, and it passes quickly, leaving Stiles panting in its wake. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” Peter asks, and he’s surprised when Stiles starts to snicker, and then laugh. Once he starts, he can’t stop, and before long he’s howling with laughter, tears streaming down his face as he clutches his sides and laughs and laughs and laughs.

Finally, he manages to draw a breath, and finds Peter looking at him with one eyebrow raised. “I don’t even know why I’m laughing,” he gets out between giggles.

But Peter knows. Peter knows that it’s sheer, unbridled relief.

It wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but it was better than their last try.

 

* * *

 

They’re going to stay at Derek’s.

Stiles went with Peter to collect the kids one day, and as he was watching him load them up in the car, Derek came over and said quietly “You know, you’re welcome to move in. You’d save an hour a day in traveling and hauling them from point a to point b, James and Nick would be over the moon, and Delilah adores Hazel. Think about it?”

He’s asked before and Stiles has dismissed the idea. But this time, Stiles does think about it. He thinks about it as Peter unpacks the three backpacks and repacks them for tomorrow, because Stiles has physio and he’ll be useless and cranky afterwards, so the kids go to Derek and Sam on Physio day. Stiles has Physio three times a week. “How the hell do you manage, Peter?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you mean, sweetheart” Peter says, as he gathers up the shoes and jackets that his offspring have dropped through the house like a trail of breadcrumbs.

“Dropping off and collecting the kids, running the house, looking after me. Isn’t it exhausting?” Stiles presses.

Peter turns to him, arms full of coats, a single sneaker dangling from one fingertip, and says “It is what it is, Stiles. It’s family life. Sometimes it’s hard work, but I wouldn’t trade it. I love you all too much.” And his face is so open and honest as he says it, Stiles knows he means every word.

“Would it make it easier all round if we moved in with Sam and Derek? He asked me again today.”

Peter hangs up the last of the coats as he says “I won’t lie, the idea does have its appeal. But it’s up to you.”

“Maybe we could move in for just a little while, while I’m recovering?” Stiles suggests.

Peter says “Why don’t we ask the minions what they think? Kids, what do you think?” Peter asks, not bothering to raise his voice, knowing that his three little wolves will have been listening to every word. There’s a small stampede as the three of them come thundering into the living room.

“Really? We could stay at Sam and Derek’s all the time? With you?” Delilah demands.

“All the time, with us, while my leg gets better,” Stiles corrects.

“Can Sam do my hair every day?” asks Rosie hopefully. She adores Sam, always has, and loves nothing better than to sit in his lap while he braids her hair.

“You’d have to ask him. D, what do you think?” Stiles asks his only son.

“Will it help you get better, Papa?” David asks, getting to the heart of the matter as always, Peter’s boy through and through.

“It will help the family, David,” Peter tells him.

“Then I vote yes,” David says decisively.

Stiles looks at his children and his husband, who are all beaming at him, and goes to call Derek.

 

* * *

 

The day before the official move, the three smaller Hales have gone to stay the night with Derek and Sam, and Stiles and Peter have the place to themselves. Stiles has been extra careful not to move around too much so he’s not sore, and when Peter comes back from dropping the kids off, Stiles greets him with a kiss, saying “House to ourselves, Daddy wolf. Wanna fool around?”

Because that’s something they can do now, on a limited scale. It’s been two months since Stiles came home from the hospital, and they’ve worked their way up to hands and mouths, and if Stiles is feeling particularly energetic, some dirty grinding. They’ve made progress, slow as it is.

“I’d love to fool around, sweetheart. Are you up for it?” Peter asks. Stiles nods, and tilts his head back so Peter can scent him and smell the arousal pouring off him, thick and heady. Peter lifts him effortlessly and carries him through to the bedroom, placing him gently on the bed and lying down next to him. “What exactly do you want to do?” Peter purrs in his ear.

Stiles pulls back and looks Peter in the eye as he says, “I want you to fuck me properly, Peter. And I think I know how to manage it.”

Peter sits up in bed then, expression serious. “Stiles, please don’t feel pressured to do this. I’d love nothing better than to take you in my arms and ravage you, but I love you regardless, you know that right? I don’t care if I have to wait another six months, or five years or ten, if that’s what it takes” Peter tells him.

Stiles hauls himself upright as well, leaning back against the headboard with his legs splayed out. “I know that. But I don’t want to wait six months, or five years.  I don’t want to wait five minutes, to be honest. And I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve done a little research.”

“Research? You mean you’ve been watching porn?”

Peter arches a brow, and Stiles blushes as he reveals “No, Actually. I talked to my physio. The last few visits, we’ve been working on my flexibility, and she suggested some things that might work for us.”

He waits for Peter to comment on the fact he’s been discussing their sex life, or lack thereof, with Helen the physio, but Peter just moves so he’s straddling Stiles’ lap, carefully keeping his weight off him as he takes his face in his hands and kisses him hungrily before saying “Have I mentioned how much I love you, my clever husband?”

“Once or twice, maybe,” Stiles pants out when Peter finally lets him up for air. He tangles his hands in Peter’s hair and drags him back in for more kisses. Finally, he pulls back, eyes dark with desire.

“OK, you get to be big spoon” he instructs, and he strips and settles himself on his side on the bed. Peter nestles up behind him, before Stiles says drily “Pants, Peter. You need to take them off. ”

Peter huffs out a laugh, and shucks out of his jeans and t shirt quickly before wrapping Stiles in his arms again. “Now what, baby? You’re running this show, remember” Peter teases, pressing his erection against Stiles’ ass.

“Now, I do this,” Stiles says, and carefully pulls his top leg forwards, making more space for Peter to rut against him. Peter looks down their bodies and he can see how this will work for them nicely.

He wants it to be good for Stiles, so he teases and nudges at his rim gently, playing with the slick that’s dribbling out, spreading it around until the crease of Stiles’ ass is slippery and his hole is soft and pliable. He lines his cock up in the crease and slides up and down slowly, steadily, the slide of flesh on flesh bringing him closer to the edge.Stiles whines, saying “Don’t be a tease, Peter.” 

Peter just smirks as he tells him “Patience, sweetheart.” His cock is dripping precome, and he knows this won’t take long. He takes himself in hand and lines up, sinking in from behind in one long, smooth move. Stiles grunts at the feeling of being so full after so long, but he also presses back into Peter, moaning in pleasure as he pulls out carefully and then inches back in.

“Want it, Peter. Want all the big,” Stiles pants out, and Peter smiles at the memory of the first time they did this, all those years ago.  

“If you insist,” he purrs into Stiles ear, and picks up speed. He’s careful not to thrust too hard, concentrating on a steady slide instead, and it must be the right choice because Stiles starts whining high in the back of his throat, wrapping a hand around himself and stroking. Peter fucks into him deep and slow, eyes closed as he enjoys the slick slide of his cock in and out, and Stiles is moaning in pleasure with every stroke.

Peter can feel his climax building, and Stiles is panting out “Harder, Peter. I can take more,” so he obliges, putting a little more force into it, snapping his hips forwards faster and faster, until his climax washes over him. Stiles clenches around him as he comes, already close from his own hand on his cock and the feeling of being fucked, and he shoots his load with a grunt.

Peter lays there breathing heavily, eyes half closed, a smile on his face. Stiles lays next to him, a smile on his face as well. They don’t speak for a minute, and then Stiles says, slightly breathlessly, “Holy fuck, it worked."

"Uh huh," Peter manages, wrung out after what feels like the best sex of his life.

Stiles speaks again. "So tell me, how big a gift basket are we sending Helen?”

“Big,” mumbles Peter into the back of his neck. “So big. I’m buying her a car.”

Stiles snorts, and says “You can’t buy her a car.”

“Can too. The woman’s a gift,” Peter sighs happily.

Stiles shifts a little and winces as Peter slips out of him. He reaches back and takes Peter’s hand, placing it on the worst of his scarring. “Aches a little. Can you? ” he says quietly, and Peter’s eyes snap open.

Stiles has never asked for this before. Too proud to ask for help, too stubborn to admit he’s in pain, it’s always been Peter or the children offering.

“My pleasure, sweetheart” Peter says, black lines already snaking up his forearm.

“Mmm” Stiles sighs.

They’re sweaty and sticky with come and slick, and they should be showering, and they should be packing, but neither of them feels like moving just yet. Peter’s just starting to doze when Stiles says “Just so you know, there are other positions. And when we wake up, I want to try them _all_.”

“Anything you say, darling. You’re the boss” Peter tells him, nuzzling in closer and scenting him. Peter drifts off to sleep savoring the scent of his husband.

For the first time in a long time, Stiles smells….happy.

 


	2. Thanks, Helen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter always gets his own way - eventually.

Peter, it transpires, actually can’t give Helen a car, and he pouts for a week when he finds out. It turns out there are regulations governing the size of gifts from patients. A gift basket? Fine. A jeep? Too much, apparently.

Stiles just laughs at him, saying “I’ve never seen somebody sulk so hard about not getting their own way.” Peter’s dropping Stiles off at his appointment at the time, and Stiles says “Thanks for the ride. I know it’s a pain for you to have to keep driving me here.”

“I don’t mind, sweetheart. You get such good results” Peter purrs, and he and Stiles share a grin as they think about their particularly  successful experience earlier in the day, involving the blanket box at the end of the bed and some padded bolster cushions. Peter follows Stiles into the building, because it’s easier to wait for him to finish than to drive the forty minutes across town just to turn around and come back again.

 

* * *

 

Helen’s not the closest physio, but she’s the best there is. She and Stiles had clicked immediately when they met.

“I’m not some poor weak omega who needs to be handled with kid gloves,” he’d challenged.

“Good, because I intend to kick your ass every damned session” she’d replied.

Stiles had laughed.

“Laugh now buddy, because you’ll be cursing me once I’m done with you, count on it,” she’d promised. And she was right. Stiles swears and bitches and cries his way through every single session, and she just tells him that means he’s doing it right, and to suck it up, buttercup. She makes sure that Stiles sticks to his exercise routine, always knowing somehow if he’s slacked off.

So Peter’s grateful to Helen for more than just the sex advice. He’s grateful that she works Stiles hard, and doesn’t give in to his whining. He’s grateful that although Stiles always leaves grumbling under his breath about paying to be tortured, they’re seeing definite improvement. And most of all, he’s grateful that there’s never any pity in Helen’s gaze.

She doesn’t doubt for a minute that Stiles can do this, and the fact that someone has faith means more to both of them than anything else. No, it’s not just the sex. Although he’s pretty happy about the sex.

He sits patiently in the waiting room, flicking idly through a magazine, still sulking a little over not being able to give Helen the thanks he feels she deserves. He’s lost in his thoughts when the receptionist clears her throat. Peter looks up, and sees her smiling at him, mug in hand.

“I made your coffee, Mr Hale.”

“Thank you, Emily,” Peter responds with a smile.  He’s here three days a week, and the staff are all half in love with him and Stiles, calling them adorable, and one of the perks is that they give him coffee and cake.

“How’s your lovely husband?” the receptionist asks him.

“Oh, he’s recovering nicely. Helen really is a treasure,” Peter tells her.

“Don’t I know it. So many of her patients say so. I dread the day that someone swoops in and hires her out from under us” the receptionist jokes.

Peter stares at her for a minute, before declaring “I’m an idiot.”

“Um, OK?” she says.

Peter puts down his coffee cup and tells her “I’m just going to pop in and check on Stiles.”

He disappears into the rooms, and when he emerges half an hour later, he has a beaming Helen in tow. He shakes her hand and says “I’ll see you in two weeks. You have the address?”

Helen nods, and once he’s ushered a slow moving and sore Stiles out the door, she turns to the receptionist, throws her arms in the air and lets out a whoop. She sits down at the desk and quickly types up a letter of resignation, signing it with a flourish and slamming it on the desk. “Fax that for me, will you?” she instructs the other woman, who’s staring at her.

“I’m going to work for Peter Hale as Stiles’ personal therapist,” she explains with a twinkle in her eye.

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks later, she starts her new job. Peter’s insisted on paying her an obscene amount for her exclusive service, and he’s guaranteed her employment for the next five years. Stiles still has three sessions a week, except Helen comes to him at home.

And at the end of her first month’s employment, Peter buys her what he calls ‘ _a small token of his appreciation’_ for her good work.

 

It’s a jeep.

 

 

 


End file.
